


behind closed eyes

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, conveying emotions through popcorn, thasmin, thirteen is just a littol baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27330811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: At the edge of her consciousness, Yaz registers a gentle pressure against her palm in the shape of another hand.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 28
Kudos: 130





	behind closed eyes

_“Doctor! I didn’t know how to contact you. How’d you know she was here?”_

_“Hiya, Yaz’s mum. Sonya told me everything. Is she alright? Has she woken up yet?”_

_“The surgery went well, so we’re just waiting for her to come around.”_

_“She’s strong. She’ll be alright.”_

At the edge of her consciousness, Yaz registers a gentle pressure against her palm in the shape of another hand. Her eyelids, limbs and chest are too heavy to return the gesture; to reach out; to lock those fingers in place and refuse to let the familiar presence leave her side. 

_“I just don’t understand why she didn’t say anything. She must’ve been in pain for days and she just ignored it.”_

_“Too stubborn for her own good; that sounds like Yaz.”_

_“D’you think you could have a word with her when she’s recovered? She doesn’t listen to a thing I say.”_

_“‘Course. But she will listen, I promise. She might be stubborn but if she knows it’s affecting everyone else, too, it might make her think. Tell you what; grab yourself a coffee and take a breather. You look exhausted.”_

_“But what if she —”_

_“I’ll stay here. I’m not leaving until she can. Go on. Here, let me—”_

_“Doctor, these are krona.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“We’re in Sheffield.”_

_“That’s right?”_

_“... Alright. I won’t be long.”_

Yaz wants to laugh; wants to tell the Doctor she’s generous but so very dumb. Unconsciousness bares down on her senses like a shadow, encroaching slowly but steadily until the voices in the room grow distant and her limbs turn to hardened cement. She thinks she hears a door click closed. 

_“What am I going to do with you, eh?”_ the Doctor’s far-off words weigh down her already heavy chest. _“I wish you’d have said something.”_

_“Sonya said if you’d have come to the hospital a few hours earlier, your appendix might not have ruptured. Could’ve saved a lot more trouble.”_ The Doctor’s laugh isn’t a humoured effort. _“But you never do anything by halves, d’you? I should’ve known.”_

Yaz’s stomach sinks. Numbed pain returns in its wake.

_“I’ve let Graham and Ryan know. They should be here this evening. Should I have brought something? Graham said something about grapes but I don’t trust them. You can never trust food that comes in more than one form, and raisins are_ **_evil_ ** _, Yaz. They’ve ruined cakes for centuries.”_

_“Listen to me, chatting away while you’re still asleep.”_

Despite how much Yaz attempts to fight back, unconsciousness looms; it’s just as stubborn as her, it seems. Fitting. 

_“If you_ **_can_ ** _hear me, can y’give me a sign? I don’t like seeing you so still.”_

In the seconds before her mind falls blank, Yaz kicks out. 

The Doctor’s sharp intake of breath is one of the last things she hears over the trip of her heart rate monitor and the door’s squeaking hinge. 

_“Did I miss anything?”_ her mother probes; likely noticing the undecipherable look on the Doctor’s face. 

_“She just squeezed my hand.”_

Through a grin she can’t yet display, Yaz gives in to the pull of slumber without further protest. 

She doesn’t know how long she sleeps for, nor what time of day it might be. 

The only thing Yaz does register when she gains enough consciousness to do so is the pain in her abdomen; it spreads as a throbbing pulse through her stomach and down her thighs, leaving her muscles in agonising discomfort. 

In aversion to the burning aches and fresh stab-like sensation in her lower abdomen, Yaz wills her limbs to squirm the sensation through her feet and her dry throat to form a whine. 

Her efforts must work because the pressure against her palm increases and a shadow blocks the light hitting the backs of her flitting eyelids in seconds. 

The Doctor’s voice sounds laced with fatigue. 

_“Yaz? What’s wrong?”_

The affliction gracing her gut burns further. She’s never known pain like it. It’s dizzying and overwhelming and she can feel sweat culminating along her hairline with the effort to tackle it from her muscles. 

Again, the door’s hinge squeals. 

Others enter in hurried footsteps just in time for Yaz’s whimpers to breach the room. 

“ _This doesn’t feel right. What’s happening to her?”_

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s — 

Fresh liquid enters the vein in the back of her hand and, falling lax, Yaz has no choice but to let nightfall embrace her in its numbing grasp.

* * *

The next time she rouses, the throb in her gut has been tamed, but the stinging ache in her abdomen feels fresher and more re-established. 

The room smells different; clinical and sanitary, but the familiar scent of coffee and peppermint reassure her of the Doctor’s presence at her side. 

_“This has been the longest week of my life.”_ Her mother’s voice is hoarse with what Yaz can only presume is bred from lack of sleep. 

_“She’s on the mend this time, though. She’s responding well to the antibiotics and her stats are nice and steady_ ,” an unknown other retells seconds before something clicks against the metal of her cot. A clipboard, perhaps. _“Thankfully it was just a small infection of the scar tissue, but it’s understandable that you were scared.”_

_“How long do you think it’ll be until she wakes up?”_

Yaz’s heart strains against her ribs and she wants to yell; wants to cry that she’s trying her best. That she wants to open her eye just as much as Najia wants her to. But they’re just so _heavy_ , and consciousness runs away from her like the lightest clouds in strong wind. 

_“The last of the anaesthetic should wear off in the next few hours. Then it’s a matter of whenever she feels strong enough.”_

_“Right.”_

_“Would you like me to get you anything?”_

_“No, thank you. Not for the minute.”_

_“And for her?”_

_“This is the first time I’ve seen her sleep since she got here. I think I’ll leave her for now.”_

They must be referring to the weight settled beside her elbow, where the bed has dipped to support a heavy head and folded arms. 

Even in sleep, Yaz can feel her presence. It does something to her chest to know the Doctor is so reluctant to leave her side. 

It’s that thought that eases her back into slumber. 

* * *

When Yaz finally peels her dry eyelids open, the room is cast in dim light and the windows are dark. There’s a fold-out cot set up beside her where her mother’s familiar form sleeps, and on her other side, blonde hair greets her sheets in disarray. 

The Doctor’s face is angelic in sleep, her nose buried against the crook of her elbow but her body hunched over in a position which screams discomfort. 

Yaz would be more worried if she hadn’t previously found her asleep upside down on the library’s comfiest sofa or napping in the swing beneath the grates of the console. The woman could sleep anywhere she put her mind to. 

The pull of her eyelids is stubborn, though, so after a quick survey of her plastered scar — a neat but lengthy line of stitches gracing her abdomen — and the needle still tacked to the back of her hand, she returns to her former stasis without the fear of another fall from grace. 

* * *

The aroma of cheap, fresh coffee and traded voices is what rouses her next. There’s light on the backs of her lids and a hand in hers. 

“She used to save her packed lunches and give them to a homeless lady a block away from her school on the way home. I only learnt about it a year ago when Sonya slipped up after we’d bumped into the same woman in town.”

“Sounds like Yaz,” the Doctor emits with no lack of affection. “She’s the only one who’ll share her popcorn with me on movie nights. She usually lets me eat the whole thing, actually.”

The tips of Yaz’s ears burn. 

_Don’t say it. Don’t say —_

“Yaz doesn’t like popcorn,” Najia admits. 

The Doctor falls quiet, then — “But then why would she make it herself?”

Eyes open, Yaz coughs against a sore, dry throat. The action pulls at the taut skin below her stomach but if it means her mother is kept from revealing all, it’s worth it. 

“Yaz!” The Doctor’s enthusiasm awakens Najia’s tired eyes and all at once, Yaz is encumbered by two of the most important women in her life. The blonde’s hug is slightly overeager but as soon as Yaz flinches, she eases up with a sheepish grin. “Hiya.”

“Hi,” Yaz croaks as she pulls back. Resettling her wire-crowded arm, she’s grateful when Najia takes incentive to hand over the cup of water at her side. “Hey, mum.” 

Despite the cheese-grater like scratch in her throat, her hand trembles with disuse. Yaz spills the first sip down her front with a grumble of frustration. 

“Here,” the Doctor intrudes gently, curling her hand around the plastic cup and plucking a rainbow paper straw from the depths of her pocket. “There you go. Drink up.”

Despite her embarrassment, Yaz is too parched to resist. The first gulp of water past her lips and into her aching system makes her sigh her approval. 

She gets through two cups before settling back with a grunt. “Thanks.”

In the meantime, Yaz doesn’t fail to notice the Doctor’s twitching fingers toying with the sheets just shy of her hand. 

“Do you know how long you’ve been out?” Najia probes carefully. She looks exhausted, and Yaz hates the fact she’s responsible for it. 

“I think — I think it’s a week, right?” she answers. “I could hear parts of your conversations — I didn’t mean to. I just kept zoning in and out but I couldn’t wake up.”

“I _knew_ it,” the Doctor divulges. “I could feel you the whole time.” 

While Yaz’s cheeks flush with warmth, Najia clears her throat. “How do you feel?”

Yaz swallows back a _fine_ when both women regard her in earnest concern. It chips away at her resolve, even more, when she considers her unpredicted decline just a few days prior. “A bit sore,” she provides honestly. “And tired. I feel like I've run a marathon with no practice.”

“I reckon y’could give that a good go,” the Doctor encourages with her unending enthusiasm. 

“Perhaps not for now,” Najia interjects and the Doctor bares a chided, cheeky grin. Yaz laughs under her breath at the disapproval of her healing skin. “You gave us a scare, love.” 

Humour seeping away, Yaz ducks her head. “Sorry.”

The Doctor’s eyes bare into her hand. When Yaz flips it over, palm-up, the alien takes the invitation to latch on and hold. 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were hurting?” 

The question burns itself into her chest like a cigarette butt stubbed out against tender flesh. Moreso because she’s faced the same one before. 

Yaz rolls her shoulders, breezing over the Doctor’s puppy-dog eyes on the journey to her mother’s inquiring frown. “I honestly thought it would go away.” 

“What — if you ignored it?” 

“No, just —” Yaz averts her gaze, focusing instead on the thumb drawing circles against the inside of her wrist. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“ _Yaz_.” 

“Look,” Yaz bites, but it sounds more like a whine in her weakened state. “I’m really tired. Can’t we do this another time?”

If Yaz’s pleading expression doesn’t work, the Doctor’s own must twist her mother’s leg. 

“Fine,” Najia breathes, guilt disrupting her mission. “But we’re going to have this talk at some point, alright?”

“Yes, mum.” 

Najia straightens up, stretching her legs as she stands. Her phone is in hand. “Right, then, I’m going to let your father and Sonya know you’re awake. Do you need me to get you anything? D’you need any more pain relief?”

Comforted by the knowledge the Doctor doesn’t seem keen on leaving, Yaz shakes her head. The blonde is enough pain relief in herself for the minute. “I’m alright. Thanks, though.”

“Doctor, take care of her.” 

“Always, Yaz’s mum.” 

“It’s Najia,” she grumbles from the doorway. Yaz quells a grin. 

The instant they’re left alone, the Doctor hops up onto the edge of the bed like a golden retriever usually denied the opportunity to join their owner on the couch. 

“D’you want to play a game to pass the time? I’ve got scrabble, cluedo, monopoly, top trumps…” while the Doctor routes around in her pockets, Yaz sags against her pillow with a sigh breathed through her nose. 

“Honestly, Doctor, I think I might be too tired,” she supplies softly, stilling the Doctor’s excitable efforts with a hand at her forearm. 

It’s like telling a dog to grab their lead for a walk but never leaving the house. The Doctor’s expression deflates then shifts quickly to understanding. “Of course. Silly me. Got a bit too excited that y’were awake, I think.” 

“Hey.” Yaz catches her fingers and squeezes, taking in the dark circles around her eyes and ultimately thinking back to her uncomfortable sleeping state the night before. “It might be a bit squished, but d’you want to lie down? You look like you could do with some rest, too.”

The Doctor twists her lips as she judges the space on offer, then the stiff, metal chair she’s been occupying for the last week. She eyes the door next, then the wires connected to Yaz’s arm and hand. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“The offer’s there,” Yaz encourages gently, her tone sing-song. “It’s a lot comfier than a ratty chair.” 

Hooked in like easy bait, the Doctor shuffles up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You’re on my good side.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, Yasmin,” the Doctor grumbles in good nature, shifting onto her side to better give Yaz amble room. She eases down like a cautious abseiler making their descent down an open gorge. “You’re right, though. Very comfy bed.”

The scent of coffee, earl grey and stolen coconut shampoo radiating from the Doctor’s form makes a welcome change from antiseptic and gauze. Yaz thinks her scent in itself might help her sleep more than any anaesthetic could. 

Sleep dousing her with warmth and confidence, Yaz turns her head to bury her nose against the Doctor’s collar. If she has any complaints, the Doctor doesn’t show it. 

In fact, when Yaz lifts her head to tuck closer, the Doctor sneaks an arm behind her neck under the pretence of stretching. Together, they fit. 

“Yaz?” the blonde pipes up just as Yaz is drifting off. 

When Yaz hums in reply, the Doctor’s lips brush against her forehead. Whether it’s by accident or intentional, she’s not sure. She’d like to lean towards the latter, though. 

“Do you like popcorn?”

She’s sleep-soft and drowsy when Yaz seeks her out. “Nope.”

“Huh.”

A beat passes where Yaz thinks the Doctor might have fallen asleep.

Until— 

“Then why do you —” 

Yaz’s lips are warm where they press against the base of the Doctor’s throat. 

She hopes that conveys her thoughts enough for now. 

The Doctor’s breathy _oh_ just might be ingrained into her mind forever, but the brazenly traded kiss against her cheek is a close second. 

And she might need to take some time to heal from her physical wounds, but at least her heart is alive and thrumming in her chest. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! comments and kudos are always appreciated if you have the time !! <3


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